keep us warm, hands digging trenches, routing pipes and cables, hands as worn as my father's cutting sugarcane so my brother and i could have books and shoes. the dust of farms and deserts, cities and plains mingled by one windour breath. breathe. hear it through the day's gorgeous din of honking cabs, buses launching down avenues, the symphony of footsteps, guitars, and screeching subways, the unexpected song bird on your clothes line. hear. squeaky playground swings, trains whistling, or whispers across café tables, hear: the doors we open for each other all day, saying: hello, shalom, buon giorno, howdy, namaste, or buenos días in the language my mother taught me in every language spoken into one wind carrying our lives without prejudice, as these words break from my lips. words break from my lips.